by John Lars Zwerenz
When the wavering cradle of the soft, amber field
Inebriates our kisses, as showers commence to descend
Upon our naked knees, where slender briars bend,
We inhale the mystic wine which the mead's reeds yield.
And as the nascent moon rises in the curtain of the west,
Over the splendid, emerald crest
Of the linden clad mountains, strewn with our dream
Of a courtyard and a brook, a statue and a stream.
Last updated August 25, 2016